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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774927">in the eye of a hurricane</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/pseuds/cleardishwashers'>cleardishwashers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hurricanes &amp; Typhoons, M/M, danny is stupid, yes this is bc i went out to the beach in the middle of the hurricane on tuesday dont @ me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:00:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/pseuds/cleardishwashers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a <i>hurricane</i> about to make landfall, Danny." He can already feel the pitter-patter of droplets coming down on his (Armani) suit jacket, can feel the wind hurling sand against his bare skin like a horde of angry mosquitos. His cream suit is going to be stained orange by the end of this. Goddamnit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Danny Ocean/Rusty Ryan, Isabel Lahiri &amp; Rusty Ryan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in the eye of a hurricane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He clocks Danny's drunkenness at twenty paces away; he clocks Danny's stupidity twenty paces before that. He kicks off his loafers and rolls up his pant legs, and then he crosses the dark sand to where Danny stands, ankle-deep, in the surf. Well, he would be ankle-deep, if the ocean wasn't throwing out six-foot waves at every opportunity, meaning that Danny's standing either on dry land or in a foot and a half of water. His unrolled slacks are soaked all the way to the thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty walks forward gingerly, until he's at Danny's shoulder and the waves are tugging at his legs, too. His right calf stings with every touch of the salt water. He has to holler, practically, to make himself heard. "We shouldn't—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"—be here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny turns and squints— not hostile, more inquisitive. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurricane</span>
  </em>
  <span> about to make landfall, Danny." He can already feel the pitter-patter of droplets coming down on his (Armani) suit jacket, can feel the wind hurling sand against his bare skin like a horde of angry mosquitos. His cream suit is going to be stained orange by the end of this. Goddamnit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you're supposed to be in Milan, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rusty."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you get so pissy about me going without you that you decided to drown yourself?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny chuckles, and it's breather than usual but that's what happens when you down what Rusty suspects to be multiple shots of Jack. "No, just… this job was a lot more dangerous than usual." Rusty knows. It's why he didn't tell Danny he was going until he was already at the airport, why his right calf is wrapped in seawater-soaked bandages. “And you’ve obviously gotten yourself hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘S not too bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny turns his head, glaring balefully at Rusty. “Might’ve worked on Reuben.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not me. Never me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty lowers his head for a moment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘S okay. Just don’t go without me next time. Matter of fact, don’t go at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty shakes his head. “Isabel needed my help. What can I say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny sighs and leans against Rusty in lieu of a response. Rusty can smell the whiskey on him, and he brings his hand up to curl around the far side of Danny’s neck. Danny slings his own arm around Rusty’s shoulders, pulling him close. The waves beat at them, at the six-inch gash on his leg, but they stand there, unmoving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You done being dramatic yet?” Rusty asks, pressing his fingertips lightly into the dip between Danny’s neck and shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny laughs again, the wind stealing the sound but not the breath hot against Rusty’s cheek (and if Rusty’s chest warms in time with Danny’s exhale then that’s nobody’s business). “Never.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sucks to suck, ‘cause we’re going,” Rusty replies, even though Danny’s already turning around, towards the haze of beach houses in the distance. They limp up the beach, sides pressed together, as the wind kicks up again and drives the sand into their exposed skin. “You really didn’t need to worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny snorts. Rusty doesn’t blame him; that’s the exact response Rusty would give, if their positions were reversed. “Don’t be a dumbass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been hanging around you for thirty years. If that isn’t a dumbass choice, I don’t know what is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you’re all the richer for it.” Danny leads them to a blue cottage and pulls out a set of keys. The rain’s really coming down now; Rusty’s suddenly very glad that he got to the beach when he did. “And yes, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> pay for this with my own money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terry Benedict’s money, more like,” Rusty says, as Danny fumbles to open the door. “Or have you blown through that already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny looks up from his keyring dilemma to shoot Rusty an unimpressed glance, one that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve seen your hotel’s bank statements.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Rusty flashes a grin at him in return. Danny shakes his head. Finally, the door swings open— bangs open, more like, thanks to the howling wind. They stumble inside; Rusty drops his loafers at the door, and Danny kicks his soaked running shoes off, half-falling back onto the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You started—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You told me to keep the weight off, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, these shoes are shit, anyway. Bet the water didn’t help. Lemme see your leg.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny’s tone brooks no contradiction, even though he’s the one who just fell trying to get his shoes off. Rusty sighs and props his foot up on the arm of the couch, casting a glance at the rain-lashed window as he does so. “How the hell’re you gonna redress it if you’re drunk as shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny flicks on the table lamp— good thing, too, since the room is darkening rapidly. “I’m not drunk as shit. I’m tipsy as shit, maybe. You just have a bloodhound nose,” he says, pulling an emergency kit from under the couch and a towel from the large pile of laundry next to him. “What, you don’t trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a career criminal,” Rusty says, instead of saying something stupid like </span>
  <em>
    <span>I trust you more than I trust myself.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danny cuts the wet bandages off and winces at the sight of the gash before toweling Rusty’s leg dry— “You’re gonna—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could not care less about the towel,” Danny says firmly. “Gimme the antiseptic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty hisses despite himself as Danny blots the wound with a wipe. The look Danny gives him is ever-so-slightly mocking, but he pats in the ointment with a sympathetic touch, and he wipes his hand on the towel instead of on Rusty’s pants like he’s done so many times before. Dry bandages get wrapped around Rusty’s leg once more, and Danny tapes the end of the roll with a flourish. “Thanks,” Rusty says. “Y’know, for Christmas I think I’ll—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With the stockings—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d look better in it, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But looks don’t matter, and you’re a better nurse than me. You deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny snorts. “Remember that time—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God. And you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was I supposed to know there was already a Dr. Ross at that hospital?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Research, maybe,” Rusty says, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s what I have you for, Rus.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Danny reaches up and tugs Rusty’s sleeve; Rusty shucks the jacket and lets it fall onto the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands there for a minute, looking down at Danny with his leg still up on the couch— hell, he’s practically straddling the man— and then he laughs, the howling wind hollowing out the sound. “This is the exact position we were in when Christy Woodlawn—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except I was the one with the leg wound that time.” Danny screws up his face. “Ooh, and then she went and gave us a lecture about God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, maybe if you hadn’t gotten your </span>
  <em>
    <span>thigh</span>
  </em>
  <span> injured it wouldn’t’ve looked so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Compromising?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she break up with you then, or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Week after, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny tilts his head, but instead of asking a question he just reaches up again and grabs Rusty’s wrist this time. His eyes flash down for a quick second before darting back up to Rusty’s face. “Y’know, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>could.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buy me dinner first,” Rusty says, warmth radiating from where Danny’s fingertips touch him. He turns his arm and wraps his fingers around Danny’s wrist, tracing his own fingers over the delicate skin there. “Then we’ll see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny grins the grin of a master thief who’s just pulled off some great heist. “Don’t think we’re going anywhere in this weather.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what’re you suggesting?” Rusty says, giving Danny’s arm a little tug; Danny’s taking that as a cue to stand, readjusting Rusty’s hand in his so they’re both more comfortable— and there is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> space between them anymore, and Rusty’s felt this same warmth against his chest, his sides, his back, a thousand times before, but it’s never quite been like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> (or maybe it has, and he hasn’t been looking hard enough. After all, when Christy Woodlawn had walked into their hotel room, he’d stood up in surprise, slotting himself between Danny’s spread legs just like Danny’s doing now. Except this time Christy’s not here). As if of its own volition, his free hand skims up Danny’s other arm and curves around Danny’s neck, like he’d held him when they were outside in the storm. “You wanna—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since St. Louis, I think,” Danny says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long time coming, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wichita, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long time coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty pauses, tilts his head, takes Danny in. And then he kisses him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s barely more than a press of lips together, but it’s warm and solid and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Danny,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so that automatically ranks it pretty damn high. Rusty lets his eyes drift closed, lets his mouth curve into a grin. “Long time coming,” he repeats, his voice barely a whisper. He opens his eyes again, pulling back, and— “Ah, shit, Danny. Your power’s out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Danny’s eyes open, too, and then he says, “Must be ‘cause of my raw animal magnetism.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rusty snorts. “Alright, Clark Gable,” he says, and then he pulls Danny to him once more. They’ve got a while.</span>
</p>
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